If I Could Turn Back Time
by purplepagoda
Summary: They're both in denial. They've all got secrets, but some of those secrets just aren't worth keeping.
1. Denial

There are many things that have power over us. In life there are many obstacles–most are self made. Most of our problems are our own fault, but none of us ever want to admit that, so we deny it. We deny things until we can deny them no longer.

She sits quietly, yet restlessly in a white armchair. She flips through pages of old pictures, memories of days gone by. The only sounds are her own breathing, and that of the clock ticking on the wall. The wall clock taunts her relentlessly as she turns the pages of the book. She turns the pages and with each page her life passes by.

She didn't want to admit how she felt... she didn't want to say it out loud...make it real. She was having a hard time. She was trying too hard to make everything seem normal seem ok. Everyone could tell something was wrong, but noone dared to ask. She closes her eyes for a moment, hoping it will all go away.

She hates time, wishes she could make it stop, make the clock on the wall go back in time. There were so many things she would have done differently. Or would she? If she didn't know how things would turn out, she'd probably make the exact same mistakes. She couldn't blame all of them on being young and stupid either.

She kept telling herself that it wasn't true. She didn't want to admit it, ever. When she finally did admit it, for an instant she convinced herself that no one else had to know. She could disappear and never come back. That was when she had nothing to lose. Now she had everything to prove, and even more to lose. There was no easy way to go about this. Either way people were going to be upset.

She looks around the room, hoping she'll find answers. The clock continues to taunt her. She hangs her head in shame. "What have I done?" she asks herself. She elicits no answer. She prays to wake up from this terrible nightmare, but she knows that this is no dream. Her life was too twisted for anyone to ever dream up.

She didn't want sympathy. She didn't want them to understand, she didn't want to explain. She didn't want them to ask. She simply wanted to disappear, or at the very least be able to completely deny the whole mess. She knew that soon–too soon she'd reach a point that there was no denying it. There was only so much she could do to keep them from finding out.

She feels the phone vibrating next to her. She pulls it to her ear.

"Hello?" she answers wiping away tears.

"I thought that I was going to see you today."

"Something came up," she lies.

"That's been happening a lot lately. I'm beginning to think that you're hiding something from me," he accuses.

"I'm not," she lies.

"Good. So I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I don't know. We'll see."

"I..."

"I've got to go," she hangs up.

He stares at the woman across the table, but his mind is elsewhere. He tries to push it aside. He tells himself that he can fake it till he makes it. He swears that he can make it work. He had to make them happy. They deserved it. No matter what he would never be happy.

He knew that he couldn't go back. He knew that he was fooling himself, but maybe...just maybe he could make it work. How could he know this is how things would work out? Why did fate have to be so cruel?

Why did they have to be two lines who intersected for a brief moment, but had to run parallel to each other for the rest of eternity? He tries to get out of his own head. He takes a drink, but feels completely numb.

"Did you hear me?" she asks.

He shakes his head, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Maybe we should do this later. There is clearly something on your mind."

"There's not anything on my mind," he answers.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," he nods.

She faces the window in her office. She stares blankly at the building across the way. She's so lost in thought that she doesn't hear anyone enter the room. Her back faces the door. She remains in her trance-like state as he clears his throat to announces his presence. She continues to stare out the window.

She tries to stay out of her own head, but can't. She clenches her jaw. _Don't cry_, she tells herself. _You can do this,_ she promises. She shakes her head in disagreement with herself.

He taps her on the shoulder very lightly. She looks at him intensely. "Don't ever do that again," she warns.

"Sorry," he hangs his head.

"Do you need something?" she gnarls.

"Maybe I should come back when you're in a better mood."

She shoots him a look.

"Right. Can we talk?"

"About what?"

"You."

"As much as I do enjoy talking about myself, I'd prefer not to."

"Exactly."

"Exactly what?"

"There is something wrong with you."

"There is nothing wrong with me," she argues.

"I don't believe you."

"I don't pay you to believe me."

"What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing!" she insists.

"You're too quiet lately. You barely say anything at all, even when I set you up to knock someone down. It's like you're off in space, and you just don't care anymore. For someone who wanted this so much..."

"I don't want this."

"Since when?" his eyebrow raises.

"Just go," she motions towards the door with her hand.

"Fine, but I'll be back," he promises.

"I know you're like a weed. No matter how many times I cut you down you just keep coming back."

"Someone has to."


	2. I Don't Wanna Cry

She stares at her phone, willing it not to ring. The phone ignores her futile attempts. The phone screeches at her. She reaches for the phone, pulling it to her ear.

"Hello?" she answers.

"I need to see you in my office, tomorrow at ten."

"Ok. I'll be there," she answers coldly.

The party on the other end disconnects.

She lays the phone beside her on the desk. She flips through the pages of a book that is lying on her desk. She scribbles notes all over the pages. She looks up and finds her nemesis coming through the door.

"What?" she snarls.

Her nemesis closes the door behind herself. She stops at the desk, placing her palms on the desk, leaning in toward the woman on the other side.

"What now?"

"If there's something going on I'd like to know about it."

"There's nothing going on."

"Don't lie to me."

"Just because you want something doesn't make it so."

"Just tell me the truth."

"Why?"

"I know that something is wrong."

"The company is doing fine," she assures her.

"I'm not talking about the company."

"So what are you talking about?"

"How bad is it?"

"How bad is what?"

"How sick are you?"

"I'm not. Where would you get that idea?"

"Does it matter?"

"Have you been spying on me, or is this simply a figment of your overactive imagination?"

"The former."

"I thought you trusted me," feigning hurt feelings.

"We both know I don't trust you any farther than I can see you."

"I guess that I've given you good reason to feel that way."

"How sick are you?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

"Why do you think that?"

"I can tell that there is something wrong with you. You've been acting very strangely lately."

"I'm just sleep deprived."

"That makes you bitchy, and cranky, not quiet and withdrawn. You look a little pasty."

"Pasty? You must be thinking of someone else," she argues, "Have you heard from pasty face lately?"

"Not since Saturday."

"He'll never stay. He'll be back in two weeks."

"You said that two weeks ago."

"He can't be away from you that long."

"Tell me how bad it is."

"I don't know," she allows her guard to drop.

"You don't know?"

"I'll know soon."

"They think it's bad?"

"Yeah," she nods, trying to remain stoic, praying her tears won't betray her.

"Curable?"

"They don't know yet," she admits.

"Let me know if you need anything."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you can make me your enemy or you can make me your adversary, it's up to you. It always has been."

* * *

He sits motionlessly on the balcony of his hotel room. He takes a sip of coffee. Realizing that it has grown cold he places the cup back on the table. He take a deep breath, hoping to clear his head. How could he make such a mistake? How was he going to fix this.

Did he even want to fix this? He could start over, but he knew that it would all be lie. He couldn't do that to her. She deserved more. She deserved better than him, they both did. Maybe it would be better if he just disappeared off to some jungle somewhere, and never return. No then they'd all be miserable. He had to grow up, admit the truth, to everyone.

* * *

She rubs her temples, trying to relieve the tension of her headache. She lies in bed, alone, and hollow, looking for an answer, praying for a miracle. Knowing at the same time she'd never get either, she didn't deserve it. This was karma, and she was a bitch. The time had finally come fight to hold on, or give up, and lose it all.

She takes a deep breath, wrestling the voice in her head. The phone stirs her from her trance. She purses her lips, wipes away the tears, and grabs the phone. She clenches her hand around the phone, and takes a deep breath. She touches the keypad and pulls it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hello love," he answers.

She remains silent.

"Something wrong?"

"No," she lies.

"I thought that you were coming to see me."

"I can't do this,"she tells him.

"Do what?"

"It's unfair. I don't want to do this anymore."

"Do what?" he repeats.

"I can't do this anymore."

"You're talking about us?" he questions.

"I can't drag you down with me."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's not important."

"Tell me what's going on."

"You should stop calling. I don't want to make this any harder for you than it has to be."

"That's thoughtful of you, what's wrong?"

"Let me go," she begs.

"After everything you just want to let you go? Just like that? No questions asked?"

"You don't have a choice," she hangs up.

She sits in silence. Her back leans against the headboard of the bed. She draws her knees to her chest, and buries her face in them. She allows the tears to fall freely, not even attempting to wipe them away. "This isn't how this was supposed to go," she tells herself. "Are you really surprised?" she shakes her head. The phone rings again. She answers it without looking at the screen.

"I thought I told you not to call anymore," she rages.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes.

"No. I'm sorry, I thought that you were someone else."

"I've got some news."

"Good or bad?"

"You should come in so we can discuss it."

"So bad?"

"Just come in," he begs.

"I was just there."

"I'll see you tomorrow at nine."

"I can't keep leaving work."

"That's your call. Your job, or your life. I think I'd choose the latter."


	3. There Comes A Time

She sits on the wrong side of the mahogany desk. Her nails nervously tap on the desk as she waits. She crosses her legs at the ankles. She stares at the accolades adorning the wall behind the desk. She turns around a picture frame sitting on the massive desk. She looks at the photo. A happy family stares back at her. She replaces it quickly–in anger.

Why is it that the heart always wants the things that it never can have? Who was she kidding she probably didn't even have a heart anymore. She stares at her recently manicured nails. Purple nail polish covers her long, sinister fingernails. It was a color she hadn't worn in a while, but...why not? Why not take chances, do things that she wanted to, before it was all over.

She hears footsteps coming toward the thick wooden door of the office. She can picture the shoes before she sees the man. Brown Prada loafers, size eleven, barely worn. A tall grey man enters the room. His appearance always surprised her. He was tall and muscular, like a beast, but his voice was smooth, calm, and soft, like a prince.

He touches her shoulder blade. "How are you feeling?" he questions. "As well as can be expected, I guess," she answers. He walks past her. He stops at the leather chair on the other side of the desk. He pulls up his creased khaki's and takes a seat. He scoots the chair closer to the desk. He laces his fingers together. He leans forward, toward her. There is silence for a few seconds.

She prompts him, "You said that you have news."

He nods, and pulls out a manilla folder. He flips through papers. He pulls out a transparency and hands it to her. She takes it from him and holds it up to the light. "What am I looking at?" she questions.

He uses a pencil to point to the dark mass on the brain. "Right there,"he answers.

"That's it?" she questions unimpressed by it's size. "Yes,"he nods. "So now what?" she wonders.

"Due to the location of the tumor it's inoperable but the good news..." he continues but her brain doesn't anything past inoperable. Her breathing becomes slightly labored.

"Did I lose you?"

Her eyes meet his. "Sorry," she apologizes.

"Believe me, I'm used to it. Sometimes it helps to bring someone with you. A family member, a friend, even an assistant."

"I'd rather not."

"That's up to you."

"What are the options?"

"There are a lot of options."

"But?"

He places the transparency back in the folder. He takes out a piece of paper, and hands it to her.

"And this is?"

"Your lab work."

"Why are you showing it to me?"

He points to a line on the paper, "This makes changes the course of treatment. It limits the options, but..."

"Daniel what are you doing here?" she questions out of the blue over her dessert.

"I thought that you wanted me to be here."

"Why are you here?"

"Something my mother said," he admits.

"But she was wrong wasn't she?"

"I..."

She touches his hand, "It's ok. I already know the truth."

"I..." he can't finish the sentence.

"I mean a lot to you, but I'm not the one. I'm always going to be there for you, but... I'm not the one. I'm not the girl. I'm just your friend... your best friend."

"I'm lucky to have you."

"But I'm not the one you want."

"I didn't say that," he answers.

"You didn't have to, your eyes told me."

"I didn't know. When I came, I didn't know."

"I know, but know you do."

"I think I should just take some time."

"Why?"

"Because there's no way I'll ever be able to make it work."

"Not if you don't try."

"Betty... you don't understand."

"I do."

"No..."

"I saw it a while ago. Almost two years ago."

"How..."

"I've been around you long enough to know you better than you want me to, better than most. Face it, I know all your dirty little secrets."

"And you're the only one I could ever trust them with."

"You're late," he scolds as she steps off the elevator.

"Simmer down. Need I remind you that I'm the boss now?"

"You missed your nine o'clock meeting."

"I'm sure that you took diligent notes, and everything went smoothly."

"Was that a compliment?"

"Marc don't flatter yourself."

She stops at reception. "Messages," she demands. The girl at the desk forks over a stack of pink papers.

She heads to her office, ignoring the yapping mutt at her heels.

"Did you hear me?" Marc questions.

She places the stack of messages on her desk.

"Was it something important."

"I..."

"Was it important?"

"No but..."

"Then I don't want to hear it," she answers.

He goes to the door, she sinks onto her chaise. She thinks that he's leaving, instead he simply closes the door. He marches over to her. Staring down at her until she prompts him.

"If you have something to say..."

He starts before she can finish, "He's been calling. Half a dozen times this morning."

"I don't care."

"You don't care?"

"Drop it," she cuts him off at the knees.

"Drop the act. I know that you're hiding something, and since you're not sharing I know that it's not something good, or malicious."

"It's malicious, but... not the usual malicious."

"Are you going to fill me in, or are you going to make me guess?"

"Neither. Now go."

"You've got to let someone in."

"It's not going to be you."

"Fine," he pouts, heading for the door.

"I need to see her."

"Not the _her_ that I think you're referring to. We hate_ her._"

"Send her in anyway."

"You're losing it," he mumbles under his breath.

"I heard that," she calls after him as he walks away.


End file.
